The Cow We Named Barakah: A Child’s Eid ul Adha Memory

I was eight years old when I first learned what the word "Barakah" meant. Not from a book, not from a sermon, but from a cow.

Yes, a cow.

Her name was Barakah. And she changed how I understood Eid ul Adha, sacrifice, and love.

It was a hot August afternoon in Karachi, just a week before Eid. The streets were already full of the sounds and smells of preparation. Butchers were sharpening their knives, children were showing off their goats, and neighborhoods echoed with the bell-jingling of animals brought in for Qurbani.

In our small compound house, I stood barefoot in the sun, squinting down the lane as Abba returned from the animal market. My brothers were buzzing with excitement. This was our first time getting a cow instead of a goat.

And there she was.

Tall, light brown with white patches, soft eyes, and a slow, gentle way of walking, like she understood she was being watched. Abba had tied a red ribbon around her neck. I was the first to touch her—I placed my hand on her side and whispered, "Barakah."

"What did you say, beta?" Ammi asked.

"Her name," I said, proudly. "Barakah. It means blessing, right?"

Abba smiled. "Yes, it does. That’s a beautiful name."

From that day, Barakah became part of our home.

Unlike goats, cows don’t adjust easily to small homes and noisy kids. But Barakah did. Every morning before school, I would feed her grass and talk to her as if she could understand. My brothers would clean her pen, and my mother started saving vegetable peels just for her.

She had the gentlest eyes. She would nuzzle my hand, and when I cried one day after falling down, she licked my face. I was convinced she loved me.

As Eid came closer, I heard more and more whispers.

"Who’s going to be there for the Qurbani?"

"Don’t let the children watch."

"She’s such a calm cow... it’s going to be hard."

I didn’t understand.

"Why is everyone acting like something bad is going to happen to Barakah?" I asked Ammi.

She looked at me, her face soft. "Because it is."

That’s when it hit me.

Barakah wasn’t staying. She was here for Qurbani.

I didn’t sleep that night. I sat near her, feeding her bits of roti, crying silently. She licked my face again. I hugged her tightly. I didn’t want to let go.

The morning of Eid ul Adha was bright and full of celebration. The neighborhood smelled of spices and soap. People wore their best clothes. But I felt empty.

"Don’t cry," Abba said gently, brushing my hair. "You gave her so much love. That counts too."

I wasn’t allowed to watch the Qurbani. I sat inside with Ammi, who held me close as I sobbed.

When it was over, I refused to eat the meat. It felt wrong.

But Ammi said something I’ll never forget.

"The Prophet Ibrahim (AS) was willing to give up what he loved most for Allah. That’s what Qurbani means. Barakah was a gift. She came into your life to teach you what it means to love, and what it means to let go for the sake of something bigger."

That evening, Abba took me with him as he went to distribute the meat.

We went to families who had nothing. A woman with four children who hadn’t eaten meat in months. An old man who lived alone and wept when he saw the package. A teenage boy who insisted we sit and drink chai with him in gratitude.

At the last home, a little girl no older than me took the bag of meat, held it like a treasure, and said, "We prayed for this."

That night, I finally ate. Not because I stopped missing Barakah, but because I understood.

Years passed.

We had other cows for Eid. Other animals. But none like her.

Barakah became part of our family stories. Whenever someone talked about Eid, my siblings would smile and say, "Remember Barakah?"

And I did.

Now I’m grown, with a family of my own. This Eid, my own daughter named our Qurbani goat "Noori." She feeds it every morning, hugs it, and talks to it just like I did.

Yesterday she asked me, "Mama, do we have to let Noori go?"

I knelt beside her and said, "Yes. And that’s what makes her so special. We love her, and we let go, for Allah."

I saw the tears in her eyes, and I hugged her tight.

Love, I realized again, isn’t in holding on. It’s in giving with your whole heart.

Just like Barakah taught me.

Moral of the Story:

The spirit of Eid ul Adha lies not just in the ritual of sacrifice, but in the meaning behind it. It teaches us to surrender what we love, to give with sincerity, and to understand that the blessings of Barakah often come in the form of lessons we carry forever. Sometimes, the biggest gift we can give is letting go.

Eid Mubarak.

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Thank you for reading...

Regards: Fazal Hadi